


Confessions In Quarantine

by RedShirtWriter34567



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), COVID-19, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Quarantine, Requited Unrequited Love, Tender Sex, Wings, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23953171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedShirtWriter34567/pseuds/RedShirtWriter34567
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are both in lockdown, thinking too much about each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of Good Omens's 30th anniversary and the wonderful video they posted today!

"Good night, Angel." Crowley tossed his phone onto his nightstand and flopped over onto his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He'd slept for a whole century before, but in truth he wasn't sure if he could sleep until July. He already hadn't seen Aziraphale in months, and then when the lockdowns and quarantines started to happen, both took it upon themselves to follow suit with the humans and isolate themselves. They knew it bring unwanted attention if they disregarded the rules. It had been a year since the failed apocalypse, but Crowley still worried that Heaven or Hell would catch on to them, on what they'd done. That was another reason he didn't think he could go to sleep. What if something happened to Aziraphale while he slept?

"I already almost lost him several times," Crowley said to himself, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I can't lose him for real."

Crowley still had nightmares about the burning bookshop, about running inside despite the flames and the choking smell of ash and burning paper. Not being able to sense Aziraphale's presence was like Falling all over again. The pain he felt in his heart was like the pain when he fell into the sulfur pits, burning and tearing at his skin, his wings going from heavenly white to pitch-black. The only thing that soothed the nightmares was going to the bookshop, smelling the calming scents of old parchment and feeling the Angel's aura, seeing his face-his perfect blue eyes and his smile and his white-blond curls. 

Crowley blushed, wriggling around on the bed. Just when he'd been working up the courage to confess to the Angel the feelings he been harboring for 6,000 years, this happens.

'It's like someone's playing a joke,' Crowley thought. 'Though I'm not sure who. Upstairs or Downstairs? Why not both?'

The Demon sighed, scrubbing his hands across his face. He knew that he was being foolish. Even from the moment he'd first met Aziraphale, at the Garden of Eden, atop the Eastern Gate wall, he'd felt something. Aziraphale was different from the other Angels. He was kind and gentle, willing to help the humans despite the consequences. He took crap from Gabriel and the other Archangels bravely, had even risked himself to 'fraternize' with a Demon. 

Crowley winced at the word. He wasn't sure what had hurt more-that, or the fateful day in the 60s, when they had been sitting in Crowley's Bentley. Aziraphale had looked so beautiful in the neon lights, despite the worry and fear in his eyes.

"I can't have you risking your life," he told Crowley, handing him a tartan Thermos of holy water.

Crowley was shocked as he took the Thermos carefully in hand. Aziraphale licked his lips and shifted in the passenger seat of the Bentley. 

"Should I say thank you?" Crowley asked.

"Better not," Aziraphale said.

"Can I drop you anywhere?" 

"No, thank you," Aziraphale said, reaching out to open the door. He spared another glance at the Demon. "Oh, don't look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could...I don't know...Have a picnic. Or dine at the Ritz."

"I'll give you a lift," Crowley offered. "Anywhere you want to go."

"You go too fast for me, Crowley," Aziraphale said.

A shiver ran through Crowley's body at that. He placed the Thermos aside as Aziraphale exited the car. He drove away, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, a sad love song playing almost mockingly from the Bentley's radio. Crowley had been foolish enough to believe that that unknowing rejection would put an end to his love for the Angel. But it didn't. If anything, it only made it stronger. He tried to ignore the feelings, tried to stamp them away like the embers of a fire, but he couldn't. 

Aziraphale was the first and pretty much only other celestial being that had showed him any sort of kindness after his Fall. Just that little interaction on the Garden wall had been like catnip to Crowley. He should've known better than to get attached to the Angel, but he couldn't help it. He was drawn to the Angel even if he wasn't drawn to Crowley.

'Maybe, once all this dies down, I'll get another chance,' Crowley thought. 'I want him to know how I feel, how I've always felt.'

The Demon sighed and sat up, running his hands through his red hair. He needed to sleep. He snapped his fingers, miracling off his skinny jeans and T-shirt, leaving him in just his socks, boxers, and undershirt, all black respectively. He pulled the covers back and laid down on his belly, wrapping his arms around his pillow. He fought the heavy pulling on his eyelids for a minute, still reluctant to sleep, his fears still too apparent. 

'Go to sleep, you stupid Demon,' Crowley thought to himself. 'Everything's going to be fine. Aziraphale can take of himself.'

But even that mental reassurance wasn't enough. Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers again. The tartan Thermos appeared on his nightstand. Even though it was old, it was still tinged with Aziraphale's holiness, and it still smelled like him-apples and tea and old books. Crowley laid back down again, facing the Thermos. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	2. Aziraphale

Aziraphale stared at the phone, regretting hanging up. He figured that Crowley had the right idea about sleeping through this crisis, like he did during the 14th century. But the Angel was still worried for the Demon. Even though it had been a year since the prevented apocalypse, Aziraphale was still concerned that Upstairs or Downstairs would catch on to their ruse. Aziraphale shuddered to think about what Heaven or Hell would do to them. Specifically to Crowley. The Demon seemed to have a real knack for putting himself in danger. 

'Only because of you, though,' Aziraphale thought.

He winced, but it was true. Almost all the times Crowley had been in danger had been because Aziraphale had been in danger-France during the revolution, London in 1941. He was always there when Aziraphale needed him, either for help or even just company. The Angel glanced toward the back room of the shop, where he and Crowley had spent many evening, drinking their way through fine wines whilst discussing anything that came to mind. They spent lazy afternoons back there as well. Crowley would sprawl out on the couch, his gorgeous golden eyes on display as he listened to Aziraphale talk about what novel he was currently reading or a new restaurant he'd seen. Sometimes Crowley would ask Aziraphale to read to him, and of course the Angel would. He'd spend many hours reading novels or poems to the Demon, who would listen with rapt attention for awhile before nodding off. 

Now, though, with quarantines and lockdown in effect, Crowley hadn't been by the shop in a long time. And Aziraphale missed him. He'd never quite realized just how empty his shop seemed when it was just him and his books. He was so used to the Demon's presence that it was like being separate from a life-saving medicine. The only thing that really remained of Crowley's presence was the faint outline of his body on the couch. He spent so much time there, so much time in the bookshop in general. Aziraphale wasn't sure he'd be able to occupy himself without the Demon. The 14th century had been quite lonely while Crowley slept, though Aziraphale refused to admit it at the time, for fear of being heard. That fear had always been there, even from when the two had first met at the Garden 6,000 years ago. The Angel remembered it like it was yesterday.

He watched Adam and Eve on the horizon, flaming sword in Adam's hand. Aziraphale knew with every fiber of his celestial being that he'd done the right thing, but he was still fearful of the repercussions that were sure to come. Then, Crowley appeared, slithering up the wall, his black-and-crimson scales flashing as changed forms. Aziraphale remembered being captivated at once by the Demon's beauty-his golden eyes, his thick red ringlets, all such a stark, beautiful contrast to his pale skin and black robes and midnight wings. He'd reassured Aziraphale when he'd been doubting himself.

"You're an Angel," Crowley said silkily. "I don't think you can do the wrong thing."

Aziraphale had smiled, relived at that statement. He decided to return the favor by shielding Crowley from the oncoming storm with his wing. From then on, Crowley and Aziraphale had become a bit of a duo. Crowley, though, seemed to be more devoted than Aziraphale. He was so different from other Demons, not just in appearance, but personality in general. He liked music and cars and plants, and he even liked listening to Aziraphale chat about books or food or anything really. But it wasn't until later years that Aziraphale noticed just how far Crowley's devotion to him went. First it was when Crowley miracled Hamlet to be a success at the Globe Theater. 

"All right, I'll do that one," he'd said, snapping his fingers. "My treat."

Aziraphale smiled at the memory, but began pacing the bookshop. Next was during the French Revolution.

"What the deuce are you doing, locked up in the Bastille?" Crowley had asked, looking rather fetching in his all-black garb, his hair long and braid. 

He snapped his fingers, and the manacles around Aziraphale's wrists fell with a clatter to the dirt floor. 

Aziraphale stopped in the back room, studying the outline of Crowley's body on the couch. London in 1941.

"Little demonic miracle of my own," Crowley had said with a smile, prying the bag of books from the dead Nazi's hand and handing it to Aziraphale. "Lift home?"

Aziraphale bit down on his bottom lip. It was then that he realized that he loved Crowley, and that the Demon loved him. But how could they be together? They were supposed to be enemies. But they were different from other Angels and Demons. Aziraphale was treated coldly, cruelly, by the others. But Crowley treated him like he mattered, like he was the greatest thing to ever grace the Earth. But how could Crowley love him? After all, even after Aziraphale had realized his feelings, he remained distant from Crowley. But only to protect him. He'd been so afraid of what Heaven would do if they somehow found out that he loved Crowley. The other Angels would never see Crowley as anything but a snake, a Demon. They would never see him as Aziraphale saw him-a kind, gentle being, cursed to be something that people hated. 

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered. 

He turned and walked back toward his desk, reaching for his phone. But then he stopped. What he wanted, what he needed, to say to Crowley, was something that needed to be said face to face. Aziraphale pulled on his jacket, and, before he could change his mind, snapped his fingers. He soon found himself outside the door of Crowley's flat. He hesitated only for a minute, before he raised a hand, and knocked.


End file.
